


Stille Nacht, Silent Night

by Amelia_Clark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, British Dean, Christmas Truce of 1914, German Castiel, I SWEAR TO YOU NO ONE DIES IN THIS FIC, Love at First Sight, M/M, Star-crossed, Trench Warfare, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2844350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the lines near Ypres, just before dawn, Corporal Dean Winchester huddled in a freezing funk-hole, stamping his feet against the cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stille Nacht, Silent Night

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the Christmas truce [really happened](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christmas_truce), 100 years ago today. When I mentioned to [sysrae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae) I'd been wanting to write a WWI AU, she more or less dared me to write this...so your tears are _basically_ her fault. ;)
> 
> Unbeta'd because I wanted to post today; please point out any typos, and feel free to correct my German!
> 
> Photo manip by the darling [alessariel.](http://alessariel.tumblr.com/) Dean's uniform isn't accurate, but look how sharp he looks!

In the lines near Ypres, just before dawn, Corporal Dean Winchester huddled in a freezing funk-hole, stamping his feet against the cold.

It was strange, what a man could get used to. Six months ago, his situation would have been intolerable. Not just the gunfire and the constant noise of the artillery, but the dirt, the lice, the fearless rats; all of it was unimaginable to the boy he’d been before joining up. But the Marne and the Aisne had changed him, rearranged his priorities, so that right now, despite his aching feet and his lack of sleep, he would have told a comrade that today was a good day.

No one he knew had died, to begin with, and the rain of the past few days was letting up. He'd had a letter from his little brother, Sammy, where he’d finally promised not to lie about his age so he could join up too; in the same package, he’d received a pair of socks and a Christmas cracker from Mother. The latter was a jolt, as he'd completely forgotten the date. But indeed, come morning it would be Christmas Eve 1914—and far from the war’s being over like he'd believed when he shipped out, it seemed like it would go on forever.

Christmas in the trenches, he thought. They could hang holly on the wires.

*******

Less than a hundred yards away, _Oberleutnant_ Castiel Novak had given up on sleep entirely and was reading Rilke in the dugout’s kerosene glow, a cigarette dangling between his long fingers. He actually couldn't remember the last time he'd slept. Maybe he didn't need to anymore. Maybe he was transcending humanity, paring away the inessentials to become the pure warrior the Empire needed: obedient, certain, merciless.

_Scheiße._ He was losing his mind.

Castiel ground out his cigarette, lit another one. On the table under the book was the latest letter from Anna; he needed to write her back, but what was there to say that wouldn’t break her heart? _Liebe Schwester, ich bin müde, habe Hunger, und hab Angst vorm Tod. Fröhliche Weihnachten!_ (Dear Sister, I am hungry and tired and afraid to die. Merry Christmas!)

Not that he'd been home with her last year, either. No, he'd been at Balthazar Engel's never-ending house party, on a champagne drunk that lasted for a week. On Christmas Day, he'd awoken flanked in bed by an Italian soprano and a muscular dancer from the _Ballets Russes;_ he'd fucked them both before falling asleep again.

His decadence seemed so childish now, almost innocent. He'd considered himself fearless then, but he didn't know the meaning of the word.

"Sir?" said a small voice from outside, and he looked up to see his _Ordonnanzoffizier_ stooping in the doorway.

"What is it, Alfie?" Castiel asked.

"The men are wondering...sir, it's Christmas Eve."

"I'm aware of that."

"Some of the other troops in the sector, they've put up candles and trees along the trenches. There's talk of calling a truce for the holiday."

"Really?"

"Yes. No one wants to die on Christmas, sir. Or to kill."

Castiel pondered. "The generals won't like that," he said.

"No, sir," Alfie said, shoulders slumping.

And Castiel smiled, his first real smile in months. "The generals can go fuck themselves," he said.

*******

When the sun rose over the German trenches, the guns fell silent, and Dean heard voices lifted in song. The words were unfamiliar, but he knew the tune by heart.

_Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht_  
 _Alles schläft, einsam wacht_  
 _Nur das traute, hochheilige Paar_  
 _Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar_  
 _Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!_  
 _Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!_

Stretching his stiff limbs, he stepped out onto the duckboards, flagging down Corporal Fitzgerald as he passed. "Is Fritz _singing?"_ he asked.

Fitzgerald nodded, his awkward face lit up with joy. “Yes! It’s Christmas Eve!”

“I know,” said Dean, “but why have our guns stopped?”

“Because it’s _Christmas Eve,_ Winchester. The Germans sent a messenger, they don’t want to fight. Come on, they’ll be done soon, we’re going to give them a concert right back!”

Dean stumbled after him, sure he would wake up any minute still half-frozen, the thud of shells ringing in his ears. But right now, all he heard was the men around him jostling into position, clearing their throats with cold white puffs. And he found himself joining in.

_Silent night, holy night_  
 _All is calm, all is bright_  
 _Round yon Virgin Mother and Child_  
 _Holy Infant so tender and mild_  
 _Sleep in heavenly peace!_  
 _Sleep in heavenly peace!_

When they finished, the Germans cheered.

*******

As the day wore on, both sides grew more bold, and ventured out into the blasted waste of no man’s land to exchange greetings. Castiel hung back at first, worried the men in his command would find his presence a damper on their celebrations, but they insisted, and so he climbed over the parapet and stepped out in front of the wires, gazing in astonishment at the scene.

The snow on the ground concealed the shell-shredded terrain, and small knots of men stood together in the open, smoking and swapping stories. There, a British officer snipped an ornamental button off his coat and swapped it with a German; there, Alfie knelt patiently while an Englishman cut his hair with automatic clippers. Everywhere, impromptu gifts were being exchanged: chocolates, liquor, sausages. A mixed group posed for a camera, faces blank but relaxed, shoulder to shoulder.

Castiel had brought a bottle with him—a good _Gewürztraminer_ —and looked for some British soldiers to share it with. He finally approached a pair of young corporals who were draping curls of wire over a burnt stump in a ghoulish approximation of a Christmas tree. “Merry Christmas, gentlemen,” he said in English, and held out of the wine.

One of the men looked up, and Castiel found himself staring, struck by his beauty. Hazel eyes, full mouth, a jaw like a marble statue—the man smiled, and his eyes crinkled up at the corners. “Thank you,” he said, and took a swig from the bottle, passed it to their companion; he held out his hand. “I’m Dean,” he said.

Castiel took it. “Hello, Dean,” he said. “My name is Castiel.”

*******

This couldn't be real, Dean thought. A fever dream, maybe; in real life, he was no doubt lying ill in a field hospital, and would wake at any moment back to the filth and terror of the war. Instead of standing in no man's land in broad daylight, alive, hand in hand with a German lieutenant in a trench coat and felt-covered _Pickelhaube._ A German lieutenant with the most intense blue eyes he'd ever seen.

But Castiel's palm was warm against his own, his fingers strong curled around Dean's knuckles. He gazed at Dean with those startling eyes, and Dean had the strange feeling that Castiel was looking straight through him into his soul, and liked what he saw there. This should make him uncomfortable, shouldn't it? Instead, all he felt was a calm he hadn’t thought he was still capable of. He couldn't seem to let go of the other man's hand.

Until Fitzgerald—who had the miraculous ability to get drunk on a few swallows of wine—broke in, grabbing Castiel's hand away from Dean and shaking it enthusiastically "Garth Fitzgerald IV, pleased to make your acquaintance. You speak English!"

"Many Germans do. I attended Oxford, in fact," said Castiel, politely enough, though he hadn’t taken his eyes off Dean.

“Ooh, posh! Never had the time myself. Teach me some of your lingo—how do you say, oh, how do you say “Merry Christmas” in Hun?”

_“Fröhliche Weihnachten,”_ Castiel told him, and Fitzgerald parroted it back clumsily, _fruhlicka whynockten;_ then he asked how to say “happy New Year,” then “hello” and “goodbye” and “thank you,” so on and so forth while they drank. His laughter was infectious, and Dean was swept along—joining the language lesson gave him an excuse to watch Castiel’s mouth, imagine what those broad, chapped lips would feel like against his own.

It was, to say to least, not how he’d expected to spend the day.

*******

Castiel had meant to take the opportunity to fraternize with soldiers from his own side--he knew he had a reputation for being standoffish and awkward in company, and it might do some good to mingle. Instead, he'd spent hours in conversation with Dean and his companion; Garth was doing most of the talking, but he knew Dean was the reason he didn't try to extricate himself. He discovered he liked more than his pretty face; Dean had a dry wit and a quick smile, and the attraction between them was as clear as it was unspoken.

Eventually, the armies staggered back to their own trenches to sleep, blissful and deep despite the cold. But when they re-emerged on Christmas morning, Castiel found himself back at Dean’s side as if they’d made an appointment. “Where is your loquacious friend?” he asked as they strolled along, avoiding a disorganized football game in progress.

“Fitzgerald? He has a hangover the size of the Western Front, poor chap. I don’t think he’ll make it out today.”

“Ah, too bad,” Castiel lied. “I could continue teaching you some German? I have a few sentences I’d like to share, if you’d like.”

Dean shot him a wary look, held his gaze. “Uh, that depends on what they are.”

“Well, to begin with,” said Castiel, his delivery calm though his heart was pounding, _“Du bist ein sehr schöner Mann.”_

“And what does that mean, Castiel?” asked Dean. “If I’m going to say it back, I want to know what I’m saying.”

Castiel knew he was taking a risk—homosexuality wasn’t tolerated in England any more than it was officially in Germany—but what did it matter? He could die tomorrow anyway; if Dean took his advances amiss and decided to shoot him now, at least it would be a death he chose. “You are a very beautiful man,” he translated.

Dean’s eyes widened, but he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I, uh, I can say that back.” He stumbled over the German, Castiel’s eyes fixed on that lovely mouth in motion.

_“Danke,”_ he said, and they drifted closer together as they walked, their hands almost touching.

“Is there—is there more you want to say?” Dean asked after a moment.

_"Ja. Ich würde dich jetzt gerne küssen,”_ Castiel said. “I'd like to kiss you right now.”

Dean bit his lip. “Me too,” he whispered. “But we can’t.”

“No.” Swiftly, Castiel seized Dean’s hand, dropped it. Dean made a small sound in the back of his throat.

There was nothing more to say, really, nothing meaningful. _I wish we weren’t here? I hope I don’t have to kill you tomorrow?_ Both sentiments were obvious and pointless. All they had was this day, this peaceful Christmas in the midst of Hell. 

But at least they could spend it together.

**Author's Note:**

> **Epilogue, because I am not above headcanoning my own fic:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> They both live through the war. Dean suffers burns from mustard gas on his forearm and shoulder, narrowly escapes a bayonet wound to the gut; Castiel will have a pronounced limp for the rest of his life. Having exchanged addresses that Christmas, they write to each other on Armistice Day, and correspond for months before Dean goes to visit Castiel and doesn’t leave. At the right bars in Weimar Berlin, they can kiss and dance without fear; one night they have a threesome with a young singer named Marlene Dietrich. They flee to Switzerland in the 30s, and settle in the English countryside after the second war. AND THEY LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER SO THERE


End file.
